


Keeping a Clean House

by SharpestScalpel



Series: Tidy Like A Vulcan [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek (AOS)
Genre: Enemas, M/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy cleans up nicely - and thoroughly - for a visit to Spock's quarters. (kink_bingo fill)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping a Clean House

The bond was new enough still to itch at the back of his head. But it was an inside itch, deep in his brain where he couldn’t scratch at it for all his hair was a rumpled mess from his fingers. It itched like healing itched, new tissue and nerve endings sparking and figuring out how to send messages and react to stimulus.

McCoy pushed himself back from the desk in his quarters. He’d thought to get a little work done, catch up on nonvital paperwork, even though his shift had ended two hours ago. But that damn Vulcan…

Spock would have died. And McCoy didn’t have any regrets. But they were still figuring their way out around this new thing, each of them with a pipeline straight into the other’s head. He couldn’t hear thoughts – and, god above (or whichever direction, his overactive mind provided), McCoy hoped Spock couldn’t hear thoughts either – but McCoy could sense the emotions the Vulcan would deny having until he was, literally, green in the face. They were always rumbling around in there, tightly leashed.

“Computer, locate Commander Spock.” McCoy sipped from the glass of bourbon he’d poured and then not touched when he’d first sat down to ignore the tickle at the base of his skull.

“Commander Spock is currently located in his quarters.” The computer’s dry, even tone shouldn’t have provided the thrill that McCoy felt at the words. Spock was in his room. He’d worked Alpha, too – McCoy knew that, had cleared himself and Spock both for duty only five days ago. Spock’d probably gotten off shift, turned down an invitation from Jim (Jim had whined to McCoy that Spock wasn’t playing chess with him any more, not since The Incident, as McCoy was mentally referring to it), and retreated to his quarters to meditate.

McCoy had firsthand knowledge: Spock meditated in the nude.

Not that he’d seen it since The Incident. Spock had, physically, been even more standoffish than was typical. But that conduit between them… McCoy was getting good at figuring out what the various sensations in his head meant. And that _particular_ itch meant Spock wanted him, was thinking, perhaps, of the three days they’d spent locked in the First Officer’s quarters, McCoy with rug-burned knees and elbows, his asshole red and aching…

Well, now. Spock wasn’t the only one with fond memories. Was that where this itching was coming from? Spock sitting naked in his quarters, the rooms kept a good fifteen degrees warmer than the rest of the ship so that McCoy had started to sweat as soon as the door had closed behind him, tricorder at the ready to scan Spock and find out what the hell had gotten into him?

Spock had gotten into McCoy after that. Repeatedly. To their mutual, McCoy thought, satisfaction. Hell of a thing. Hell of a way to start off any kind of relationship. The green-blooded bastard and Jim were well on their way to becoming friends but the two of them? If he’d expected anything, it would have been with Jim. Jim was… Whatever. They’d never addressed any of the rumors about their friendship and now was a lousy time to be dwelling on it anyway. And Spock… Uhura had let Spock down gently and taken up with Scotty and Gaila (that had sent the nurses into a frenzy of gossip). McCoy didn’t know what had happened between Spock and the communications officer but Uhura had come to him when word leaked out about Spock’s… condition and what McCoy had done to save his life. She’d come and offered him an ear, at any time. He’d thanked her gruffly, figured there’d never be a need. But now…

Now he was sitting here with an itch in his pants to match the one in his head, thinking of crying on Uhura’s shoulder instead of barging back in there and taking what he damn well needed to admit to himself he wanted. Spock, computer that he was, probably didn’t think it was logical to base a relationship on the physical. But McCoy was divorced – you took your good solid fucks where you could get them and worked on the rest later. He’d work on the rest with Spock, maybe. Depended on what the pointy-eared bastard wanted. No reason, though, for them both not to enjoy each other in the meantime.

“Leonard, that is a shady bit of logic.” He muttered into the empty glass. And then McCoy stood, pulled his shirt over his head at the same time that he toed off his boots. He was going over there. But he had a few things to tend to before, a few things he’d have done before, the last time, if he’d had any clue.

He was going to do this. McCoy unbuttoned his pants, shucked them down his long legs and folded them over the back of his abandoned desk chair. There was a flare of something – oh, was that Spock paying attention? Damned if he could tell for sure but it felt like it, felt like Spock’s eyes were on him, traveling over his stomach, slightly soft, and lower. McCoy shook his head and laughed at himself. Spock’s eyes, sure – or his own fingertips. “Desperate, McCoy.” But it didn’t slow him down from heading to the bathroom.

The sonics weren’t as good as a water shower. But they were quick. And it saved his water credits for another purpose. McCoy withdrew the little hose and nozzle from the cabinet under his sink.

McCoy wouldn't call himself a germaphobe. But other ex-lovers had. He just figured that if someone was going to stick their tongue in his asshole, he ought to be considerate and clean things up a bit. That didn't make it a... a thing of some sort. It was just tidying up.

The water ran warm almost as soon as he opened the tap. the hose had an attachment he'd bought on their first shore leave, when he and Jim had gone down to Risa's surface and then not seen each other again for four full days because they'd neither of them left their hotel rooms. Her name had been Meenath and she'd had a fucking flexible tongue. Not only had she appreciated his penchant for hygeine, she'd gotten off on cleaning him out herself, filling him up until he couldn't take another drop.

The prickle in his head was a little sharper now. Was Spock jealous? Could he pick up thoughts after all? Or maybe just images. Could he see what McCoy was remembering, Meenath pegging him for all she was worth over the goddamn breakfast table?  
The sharp throb he felt was some kind of confirmation. Or was it wishful thinking? McCoy shoved that thought aside, concentrated instead on how hard he'd come that last time with her.

He raised a foot, propped it up on the closed lid of the john. McCoy skimmed a hand over his cock, half-hard in anticipation already, and then moved lower. He fingered his balls, then pressed just the tip of a finger against the tightly puckered muscle of his actual destination.

It was better with another person, someone to help so he could give himself up to it. Seemed a bit early in the development of things to ask Spock, though.

McCoy sighed and shut off the tap. He spread towels thick on the floor, just in case. He'd only had two accidents in the years he'd been doing this, but it never hurt to take precautions. The attachment went onto the tap; he secured it with a twist of fingers that were starting to shake.

The towels were a nice barrier between the cool tile of the floor and his knees, he noted with an idle thought. He leaned forward, rested his forehead against his crossed forearms. This was the ridiculous part, ass in the air like a damn dog. But the bent nozzle on the end of the hose slipped in without discomfort. He'd used lube, once upon a time, when he was playing with metal nozzles. But this plastic one was slick as anything anyway.

It was smaller than a finger. Well, maybe the same size as a woman's finger. But it was smaller than Spock's fingers had been. McCoy grunted, clenched around the nozzle. He was fully hard now and he hadn't even started.

The nozzle in place, McCoy scrambled to pull back an edge of one of the towels. He rested his forehead on the floor, panted into the solid matter of it. He had to hold it together or he wouldn't make it to Spock's rooms. The deep breathing helped. His body was still buzzing with excitement but he felt better, felt calmer. McCoy reached back to adjust the nozzle again, settled his hips a little wider, then moved back into his original posture, forearms braced against terry cloth covered floor.

"Computer, initiate water usage, two quarts, slow stream."

The water was only slightly warmer than body temperature. He felt it when the stream started, a spreading warmth that made him extra conscious of his posture, the nozzle in his ass, his hard cock hanging between his legs.

That was the other benefit to this position - as long as he kept it, there was no other stimulation on his penis - a man could only stand so much.

Meenath had used the nozzle to run water over his prostate. He'd come all over the floor.

That throb in his brain started up again, in time to the pulse he felt in his erection. Was Spock getting some sort of voyeuristic thrill from McCoy's arousal? Goddamn, he hoped so. He wanted to tempt the Vulcan past the man's restraint. He wanted the bite of teeth on his shoulder - the bruises had been healed in sickbay but McCoy had jerked off to the recollection of them. He wanted Spock's dick in his mouth.

"There you go, Leonard, fucking admit it. You want to suck him until he comes on your face." The first man who'd done this to McCoy had talked to him the whole time, gentle praise mixed with humiliation. McCoy had tried silence the first time he'd done it to himself - and he'd stopped halfway through, the shame overriding any sense of enjoyment. So now he talked to himself, kept himself in the moment so his mind didn't run off with itself.

"Want him to hold you down and fuck you into the mattress, that's right." He was starting to feel uncomfortable now, fuller than he should be, bowels registering their objection with a cramp through his midsection.

McCoy bit his lip. But the vivid mental image of Spock sucking his own come out of McCoy's ass kept him in place, legs wide as the hose and nozzle did their work, filling him up.

Another cramp hit and McCoy swore, a drawn out whisper. He was panting again and his entire groin was one pulsating throb. He bent his head, looked down over himself. A drop of precome was glistening on the head of his cock. Maybe Spock would lick it off one day.

The answered buzz in the back of his head made him squeeze his eyes shut. Yeah, this wasn't wishful thinking. Spock was aware - Spock knew what McCoy was feeling even if he couldn't tell what McCoy doing. It made him feel watched, made him feel sexy as all hell.

Two quarts. Not a lot of water, in the larger scope of things. He wouldn’t even notice it in the shower. But inside… McCoy shifted on his knees and had to grit his teeth as the water moved with him.

“Designated ration reached.”

The computer’s voice took nearly a minute to register – the water had tapered off, leaving him full of liquid, clenching around the nozzle. There was no medical reason to hold it all in, to feel the cramps roll through him in waves. There was no medical reason but McCoy held his position anyway. Another cramp rocked through him.

Peristalsis. And there was the urgency. It clenched his gut, but McCoy resisted doubling over. That wouldn’t help, would just compress the whole area, make it harder to stay in control of himself. That busy voice in his head thought Spock might appreciate his self control, actually. He spread his knees further apart at the idea of it, at the mental imagining of Spock behind him, praising him for his control – making the Vulcan lose that placid façade in the face of McCoy’s own smooth exterior.

What had started as an itch was a full on burning in his mind now, a pressure that he couldn’t be imagining. Spock knew. Spock could feel. McCoy was only human – he levered up onto his hands and then reached one down to grab at the base of his cock. It was like everything in his body centered on his groin, the tight stretch of his colon, even the nerves in the soles of his feet responded and aching in sympathy.

“Fuck, Spock, you better be ready when I get there.” It always turned him on, always got him ready for it. But this was something else – this was whatever had pulled him deeper into Spock’s quarters, the same compulsion that had made him fall to his back and acquiesce when Spock had bid him leave, commanded him to go.

Something pealed through his mind, like the sounding of a deep bell. McCoy whimpered, gave in and lowered himself to the floor, cock pressed between his belly and the towels spread on the floor. Spock had heard him, that had to be it. Fucking hell.

It may as well have been the chime of his comm., calling him to Spock. He surged to his knees, moving faster than was medically advisable given how much water he was holding.

The urgency faded as he voided. At least the physical urgency. The need to get to Spock was still there, and McCoy imagined Spock on his meditation mat, waiting and eager, flushed jade and olive, testing his own patience while he focused on McCoy’s feelings, the sensations streaming to him. Still, McCoy was able to sit a moment, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, to catch his breath. Then he lunged for the sonics, let them blast him clean again, dry again.

McCoy didn’t bother with the regulation Star Fleet briefs when he dressed. He found worn jeans, faded but comfortable, close fitting enough that he could wear a long tshirt without advertising the erection he’d been unable to tuck away – his hard on rode straight up behind his zipper and he winced at the feel of the rough denim on the sensitive underside of his cock head. But it was a short walk. And hopefully he’d be walking back with a whole new set of aches.

Fucking shoes. His other boot had landed, somehow, under the edge of the bed. McCoy swore when he found it, continued the profane mutter as he sat to pull them on over clean socks.

The burn had shifted to a kind of hum; it was almost soothing. Spock was waiting. McCoy focused on it until he reached Spock’s door.

It opened before he could chime for entry.

“Come in, Leonard. I waited for you.”

They could worry about the details later. McCoy stepped through the door.


End file.
